


Aziraphale Learns to Drive

by medusasrevenge (pansexualbeast15)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:26:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansexualbeast15/pseuds/medusasrevenge
Summary: Aziraphale takes the first trip he's ever taken in 6,000 years that was only for pleasure and not for work. He learns a few things about driving and his relationship with Crowley along the way.





	Aziraphale Learns to Drive

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a new work in quite a while and the first in this ineffably incredible Good Omens fandom. I was inspired by a Ford Demon I saw today (never heard of this car before) with the license plate MY DEMON. 
> 
> I felt the muse's thrilling bite, or maybe it was Crowley's. How could I not write something? I call it the Good Omens effect. I love this super positive, accepting, brilliant and supportive fandom and have read such amazing stories. 
> 
> I wrote this quickly and edited it myself so apologies for any errors. I wanted to share it before I lost my nerve. 
> 
> I grow better with kudos and comments. Please feed my praise kink. And my gentle critique/helpful suggestions kink. Thank you for reading, you beautiful people you.
> 
> Sorry about the formatting! Not my strong point. I'll work on it.

Aziraphale Learns How to Drive

It was the Not So End Times. The unassuming angel with the professorial mien and platinum halo of curls divinely windblown and messy and his eternal dinner companion with the rock star swivel to his sinfully narrow hips celebrated with the choicest oysters and a veritable river of Chateau Neuf de Pape at the Ritz and 6,000 years of secret dreams and desires passing silently between sapphire and amber eyes like the oldest of temptations. Still, the man shaped creatures went home alone after standing too close to each other, brushing crackling new leather against century old cotton and bumping hands in ways both sublime and awkward, drunk on each other and unspoken promises for the future.

The next day, before he could lose his nerve and without a word to his dear boy Crowley, the angel rose from his surprise slumber just as Soho was waking up. He packed his old and tattered tartan case with a few too many favorite first editions and some delicious chocolate biscuits and flew across the pond on non-celestial wings for America, a land that had been kind to his dear friend Oscar and his other dear friend Walt. It was the first trip he had ever taken where he wasn’t acting as a Principality under the auspices of Heaven, but as himself. Aziraphale. 

He walked around the Walt Whitman Mall, shaking his head at the odd, truly wrongfooted tribute to the great poet, remembering laying in the grass with him as he read his new poem “I Sing the Body Electric” in his beautiful, booming voice, chuckling into his lush beard. Aziraphale frowned at all the shoddy summer clothes designed to last exactly 21 washes. “Planned obsolescence,” Crowley had said once, after a few bottles of wine. “Yeah, that was one of ours.” Ours. Our side.

Aziraphale spent 6 weeks and 6 days in America. He didn’t speak to Crowley though the demon had bought him an I phone before he left, patiently explaining how to operate the blasted piece of plastic. His dearest friend who had always given the gift of time now gave him the gift of space. How could he ever repay such kindness? 

The most monumental experience Aziraphale had in the US of A was finally learning how to drive. He rented a black and red Dodge Demon, the craziest of muscle cars he was told, and drove it at a respectable speed around Manhattan and Brooklyn. It wasn’t The Bentley of course, but he imagined that Crowley would have chosen a similar car nonetheless. If he came to America. He found himself wishing that the NPR station would play nothing but Queen or The Velvet Underground. Instead, the day he returned the car, the license plate read MY DEMON.

My demon. Crowley was his demon. The only demon worth knowing. And he was Crowley’s angel. After 6,000 years together it was quite alright to become a tad possessive. They belonged to each other. And the World they loved so much, rife with humans precious and flawed just like them. Aziraphale smiled, took out his new phone, scrawled through his contacts until he found Crowley’s number which he had saved under YOUR WILY SERPENT. 

“Anthony, my dear,” he blurted as soon as Crowley answered. “I’m in America. I learned how to drive. When I come back home, I- I will take you anywhere you want to go.”  
“Oh angel,” Crowley sighed softly after a moment. “You’re the only one-” he began nervously; “you know I wouldn’t let anyone else, anyone else drive. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements,” he mumbled.  
“Dearest boy,” Aziraphale breathed into the phone, wishing he could miracle himself right into Crowley’s arms.  
“My angel.” Crowley sounded like he was on the verge of the happiest tears. “I’ll talk to my plants,” he said with more confidence.  
“And I will talk to my books,” Aziraphale whispered. “Crowley?”  
“Yes, angel?”  
“See you back on our side.”  
“Angel?”  
“Yes, Crowley?”  
“It always was, you know. Our side. And always will be.”  
“Always.”

Crowley met Aziraphale at Heathrow on the very next flight the angel was able to get out of JFK. Crowley picked a thread off his angel’s coat who in turn lifted a trembling hand and adjusted Crowley’s sunglasses which were a bit crooked. He wanted to take them off and look into his beautiful citrine eyes but that was Crowley’s decision to make. It was his turn to be more patient with his demon. They had time now. All the time in this most beautiful, infuriating, overwhelming, wonderful world.

True to his word, Crowley let Aziraphale drive the Bentley. They made three stops: the book shop, his flat, the angel’s favorite French bakery where they bought every single crepe though Aziraphale was partial to the Nutella and banana while Crowley liked the sour cherry and whipped cream ones.

They were last seen driving in the direction of Sussex Downs.


End file.
